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Ularid was exhausted. Physically, he hadn’t had to exert himself in combat for years, although the Plate had made everything easier. No amount of armour could erase the the sheer panic he’d felt when Tintallë had swung her second Blade to sever his spine, or the sickening shock of Tintallë driving her Blade through her own throat. Ularid found himself reliving those moments continuously as he sat alone in his tent that night. He stamped his foot angrily. He was supposed to be good at this. A master of wiping unwelcome memories from his conscious mind. These days, he managed to never think of how his former home had looked as it was being razed or the screams of the dying, soldiers and civilians alike, or- he shook his head violently and stood up. He needed to be outside, never mind the danger. Salas had just set, and Ularid could barely see anything in the moonless darkness. Instead, he was treated to yet another recap of the duel’s final moments. He began to sprint through the camp, heedless of any chasms that might be in the area. Running away never solved his lingering resentment towards Gavilar, but it did allow him to dodge the massive arrow that sailed through the air behind him. He froze, as incapable of motion as he’d been while in shattered Shardplate waiting to die. The second arrow whizzed right in front of his face, close enough to clip his nose. Only a Grandbow, or perhaps a ballista, could have fired a projectile of that size. Ularid’s old combat instincts reasserted themselves and he dove to the ground, hiding behind a nearby tent. Surely his attacker wouldn’t notice him or the slowly dripping blood now pouring onto the ground. Holding his nose with his left hand, Ularid slowly snuck into the tent, careful not to startle any of its occupants. All of them were fast asleep, and none stirred at the presence of an intruder. Slowly, he eased himself behind one of the beds, out of the line of fire for a bow. He drew his knife, prepared to defend himself should the assailant come to finish him off. He sat there for hours, crouched on his hands and knees waiting for an attack that never came until he collapsed unconscious as his weariness finally caught up to him. Sometimes, the quietest people live the longest, Brightlord Arilar mused as he watched the undercurrent of bustling activity in the warcamps, and I have been talking far too much recently. Certainly, it was unlike Arilar to place himself in what he dismissed as “real politics,” the changing of opinions, personal conversations, and generally dangerous intrigue which his masters seemed to relish with unwarranted enthusiasm. He was a silent observer, listening, listening, but never raising his voice more often than he had to. When he did, it was sharp, direct, and quickly forgotten—little wonder he escaped the notice of most, and could retain his position as an active listener with ease. His masters liked it that way. Spying on the Kholins was dangerous, and the ability to keep one’s head down was central in such a task. Yet he had broken from his usual pattern, this time. This time, his words would not so easily be ignored by his enemies. And the increased presence had done what for him? Put a target on his back. Arilar sighed, pivoting to face the too-noisy “stalker” behind him. His footpad started, but produced a short, sturdy sword in his right hand almost faster than Arilar could track. In his left came a throwing knife, which left his hand with equal speed. Arilar flattened himself, feeling the steel bend the air around his head—he had just missed that—and unsheathed his own weapon, scrambling to face his attacker. So the Kholins had found out about him after all. He chopped down with the two-handed sword he had, which the footpad barely sidestepped, and a corner of cloth from the man’s jacket came free, exposing the open skin of the shoulder. On it was tattooed three interlocking diamonds. Excellent, Arilar fumed, now the group that hates the king is after me. He swung his sword up again, this time to parry, and the two held that position for a brief second, swords locked. And then a sudden pain flared in Arilar’s side, and he looked down, feeling his sword drop from numb fingers. With his spare hand, the Ghostblood had taken another knife from his belt and plunged it into him. Arilar sank, dropping to his knees as his assailant straightened. “You’ll...never win this...you know,” he gasped out. “Whoever you are…” The figure’s hand flew up to the mask, tearing it off in one fluid motion. Recognition dawned instantly, and despite his mortal wound Arilar pushed himself to his feet. “You!” he bellowed. “How, after everything, could—” The sword swung again, almost lazily, and further words from Arilar’s head were cut short as it rolled to the ground. Aman was attacked by a Grandbow, but survived! Araris was killed by the Ghostbloods! He was a Noble with a half-Shard, a painrial, and a Spanreed! Day 5 has begun! It will end in approximately 45 hours on Sunday 24 November, at 9 PM EST. Good luck! Player List: